


Sickest Thing His Heart Has Ever Come Across

by roswyrm



Series: Deadlands [4]
Category: Rusty Quill Gaming (Podcast)
Genre: "oh this is great he's got this nice line right here that i can– FUCK THAT'S A COMPLEX", Alternate Universe - Everyone Lives/Nobody Dies, Canon-Typical Violence, Fix-It, Getting Together, M/M, Mutual Pining, Self-Esteem Issues, Surprise Kissing, also carl is bi solely because he's got too much chaotic energy to be straight, but i start writing alexs characters and its just, cigarillo gets bit and its all very worrying, i try really hard not to do this
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-14
Updated: 2019-09-14
Packaged: 2020-10-18 13:29:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,466
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20639957
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/roswyrm/pseuds/roswyrm
Summary: Nathaniel Fletcher doesn’t know if he believes in fate, or destiny, or invisible red strings that tie people together. Fletcher doesn’t think you can fit that many red strings on a pair of hands. But he guesses he’s going to start believing because otherwise, he keeps reaching out to touch Cigarillo becausehewants to, and that’s not allowed in any sense of the word.





	Sickest Thing His Heart Has Ever Come Across

**Author's Note:**

> I STARTED THIS IN JUNE.
> 
> _J U N E ._
> 
> JESUS CHRIST, FLETCHER, BE EASIER TO WRITE
> 
> anyway, they finally get together in this one, hallelujah, i'm so tired. i listened EXCLUSIVELY to Adeline by Fever Dolls (which is why the title is a line from there) while actually writing this goddamn thing, which i love dearly but am also tired of. s/o to the-navigator-knows-the-way for being a lovely person and not asking me where the hell this was (because it WASNT COMING ALONG AT ALL) and also just!! being a good friend!!! whom i like talking to!!!!!
> 
> Working Title: _please its been seven thousand words_

Nathaniel Fletcher doesn’t know if he believes in fate, or destiny, or invisible red strings that tie people together. Fletcher doesn’t think you can fit that many red strings on a pair of hands. But he guesses he’s going to start believing because otherwise, he keeps reaching out to touch Cigarillo because _he_ wants to, and that’s not allowed in any sense of the word.

Cigarillo doesn’t say anything when the little red strings pull their hands closer together on the bench, and there aren’t words for how grateful Fletcher is for that. Fletcher keeps talking anyway, loudly explaining that, no, Carl, you do _not_ pronounce ‘Jefe’ like ‘Jeffey.’ It’s an uphill battle, and eventually it transitions to no, Carl, it’s not ‘Heffey’ either, Jesus _Christ,_ but at least it passes the time. And when those red strings pull Cigarillo’s pinky over his own, when they tangle so that Fletcher can’t move back, he’s glad Carl’s still talking, because otherwise, someone might have heard Fletcher’s heart pick up a stacatto.

And it’s not allowed in any sense of the word, but when Fletcher sneaks a glance at him, Cigarillo is staring pointedly into his drink, and his cheeks are pink, so Fletcher gets the idea that maybe he doesn’t really mind. Besides, it’s not like something being off-limits has ever stopped Fletcher before.

(When they finally rent rooms and go off to bed, Fletcher squeezes his hand under the table before he stands up. Fletcher’s never been a brave man, and he flees to his own room pretty fast after, but he could have sworn that Cigarillo’s hand trailed after his as he left.)  
///\\\\\///\\\\\///\\\\\  
Zeke looks at him like he’s an idiot. It’s the face Zeke makes most often, and it’s usually the one he directs at Fletcher, which is rude because Fletcher is clearly _the only intelligent one here._ “We’ve got it on the ropes,” the big guy argues, quietly, so that the skinned-raw won’t hear him. Well, quiet for _him,_ but it’s still basically a thunderclap to Fletcher’s anxiety-pricked ears. “There ain’t no reason not to finish it off.”

Fletcher looks at him like _he’s_ an idiot, because he is. “They’re tricksy,” he points out, “you know they’re tricksy! I don’t think my shot even hit it!”

“You wouldn’t know,” Zeke grumbles, “your eyes were closed.” Fletcher opens his mouth to argue, remembers that his eyes were, in fact, very much closed, and then shuts it again. Zeke has the decency not to look smug about it. “I saw it recoil, we both heard it scream – we can kill it easy, and then there’ll be one less to worry about.” Fletcher throws his hands up in exasperation. He balls them up into fists by his head, flexes his fingers a few times, and then puts them both on Zeke’s shoulders.

Without thinking about how warm the big guy’s skin is under his palms, and _very pointedly_ without letting his eyes flick down, he says, “Listen, I know what a skinned-raw sounds like when it’s on the brink of death. That wasn’t it.” There’s determination in Zeke’s eyes, and Fletcher wonders if it’s determination to prove him wrong or to kill the thing. “We can try,” Fletcher relents, “but I’ve only got three bullets left and we need to get back to the others.” Zeke looks at him for a long moment, and then his shoulders relax under Fletcher’s hands and the light in his eye shifts.

The big guy doesn’t shrug him off, and he doesn’t stop staring back as he says, “Fine. Let’s go, then.”

Fletcher squeezes his shoulders and then takes a step back. He’s not going to think about the fact that Zeke trusts him on this, because he’d _over_think that fact, and right now the only thing he needs to be worried about is getting back to the rest of the gang. “Yep,” he agrees, “yep, alrighty, let’s go, it’s this way.” Zeke grabs him by the back of his neck and turns him in the opposite direction. “That was a test,” Fletcher explains. Zeke snorts.  
///\\\\\///\\\\\///\\\\\  
“Come on, lad!” Carl insists jovially, nudging Zeke in the arm, “That young lady’s been staring at you all night! If I were a few years younger—”

“Few decades, maybe,” Fletcher chimes in helpfully.

“—I’d take her out for dinner somewhere! She seems very sweet,” the old man finishes as if Fletcher hadn’t spoken. “And respect your elders, Mr. Fletcher!” Yep, there it is. 

Zeke looks over at the waitress, (who blushes and turns away to busy herself with cleaning a table) looks her up-down-up-again, and then shrugs. “She ain’t my type,” he says simply. Fletcher remembers the campfire conversation from – what was that, November? – and clicks his tongue in understanding. Carl looks almost indignant, and Zeke cuts across him with a subtle head tilt to the waiter that served them earlier. “I’m more partial to someone like him.”

Carl raises his eyebrows all the way to his forehead, closes his eyes, and nods sagely like he’s understood all along. Cigarillo sighs and takes another bite of his bread roll. “Ah! One of those, then. Perfectly understandable! I like both, to be honest, but it doesn’t really matter because the only person I’ve ever kissed was an opossum,” and the table breaks into confused and mildly horrified laughter.

(Cigarillo winds his foot around Fletcher’s ankle under the table, and Zeke all but slumps into his shoulder, still laughing at Carl. Carl keeps talking, despite many protests, and by the time the night’s through, they’ve all gotten more than a few glares from other patrons.)  
///\\\\\///\\\\\///\\\\\  
There’s a moment of downtime somewhere near the edge of where California used to be, and Fletcher uses it to gawk. Zeke sits on the ground, carefully still as the kid – fuck, goddamnit – as _Cigarillo_ braids his hair for him. (Fletcher likes to keep his hair short and slicked back just because it’s easier than anything else, and he thinks the pomade smells nice. But Zeke’s eyes are closed and his head is tilted back into Cigarillo’s hands, and he looks so content that Fletcher almost wishes he had long hair, too. The scar across the big guy’s lip is only barely bent around the curve of his lips, and Fletcher _really_ needs to stop staring at his mouth.)

(He won’t, but he probably should.)

Fletcher’s lounging, listening to the distant lap of waves and wondering if he can _actually_ smell the sea or if he’s just imagining it, sitting far enough away from the two of them that he can tune out their conversation, but he can’t tune out when Cigarillo laughs. (He doesn’t know why he’d want to tune it out, anyway; Cigarillo has a cute laugh.) Fletcher shakes his head and settles back against the tree like maybe he can shoo the thought away. He can feel those little red strings tugging him closer to them, but he’s going to give them this moment alone.

Carl’s trying to mollify Jeffey, (he doesn’t care how Carl spells it, if that’s how he’s gonna say it, Fletcher’s gonna think of him as Jeffey and there’s nothing Carl can do to stop him) who Fletcher’s pretty sure just ate an entire bush full of burrs and is loudly inconvenienced by this, and Sacramento and Bob are nearby, grazing on actual grass for the first time in months. Fletcher wishes he had a camera, or maybe a sketchbook and some artistic talent, or just a perfect memory. If he could live in a moment forever, Fletcher thinks he’d want it to be this one.  
///\\\\\///\\\\\///\\\\\  
A skinned-raw sinks its teeth (because of course, they have big, terrifyingly sharp teeth) into Cigarillo, and he screams until the thing tears off a bloody chunk of him, and he goes down. Fletcher slams the butt of his derringer into his dead ‘uns cheek and the bone collapses under the force, causing it to howl and stumble, off-kilter. Fletcher turns his back to it (and his instincts are screaming, _hey, no, that’s gonna get you killed!_ but Fletcher decides he doesn’t care) and shoots the skinned-raw three times in the chest just as Zeke slams his club into its head so hard that it _spatters_ onto the rocky soil. “I told you Oregon has the worst pest problems!” Carl shouts over the moaning of the dead ‘uns as he shoots the one that was about to lunge for Fletcher.

_“Not the time, Carl,”_ Zeke yells, and he crushes another dead ‘uns ribcage in one blow.

They have to stand over Cigarillo, back to back to back, to keep the damn things off of him. Dead ‘uns are like maggots, and Fletcher’d really prefer it if they didn’t start chewing on his friend, thanks. By the time there aren’t any more of them, Carl’s kneeling next to him with his first aid kit out. “Can you cover his mouth, Fletcher?” Carl asks, and it’s got none of the usual bluster. Fletcher furrows his brow. “This is going to hurt him a lot more than it’s going to hurt me,” the old man explains, and Fletcher screws up his face, but does as he was asked. And it’s probably for the best, because his hand only mostly muffles Cigarillo’s shriek of pain as he comes to. “That’s going to leave a mark,” Carl says jovially, back to his usual self, but Fletcher notices the worry in his eyes, “but look on the bright side! Scars look good! We’ll have to get you a top that shows it off.” Cigarillo stops screaming and just breathes hard, and Fletcher takes his hand back to let the kid get air. Carl shuffles a bit closer and takes out a roll of bandages.

Cigarillo winces back and stammers, “C-can’t that wait until it stops hurting?”

Carl pulls off a strip, raises an eyebrow. “Do you want gangrene?” he asks, almost like it’s a legitimate question, but mostly like it’s a joke.

“Wh– n-_no?”_

“Then I’m afraid not, lad. Come on; it’ll be quick.”

Zeke has to help Cigarillo up onto his horse. Fletcher would have done it, but he’s not exactly the stongest of guys, and also his hand hurts from how tightly Cigarillo was squeezing it. “Not fun, is it?” Fletcher asks once they’re riding. The bite is right above his collarbone, and the bandages cover half of his neck and a lot of his shoulder, so he’s sitting in front of Fletcher because he probably couldn’t hold on from behind. Cigarillo sighs and lets go of the saddle horn with one hand to lean back against Fletcher. “I hope you don’t want a hug, because I physically cannot give you one right now.”

Cigarillo laughs at that, and Fletcher takes his eyes off of the dirt path to smile at him. Cigarillo mumbles, “What about in town?” and he sounds tired in the way that you only get after playing a game of ding-dong-ditch with Death.

Fletcher spurs Sacramento on just a bit faster. “Sounds good, but you have to stay awake ‘til then, okay?” Cigarillo makes a noise of protest, but he grabs the saddle horn again. “There we go. Only a few more miles, kid.”

“Blood loss didn’t make you older than me.”

“Shh, you’re delirious, you don’t know what you’re saying.”

“I can still shoot you, Fletcher.”  
///\\\\\///\\\\\///\\\\\  
They stop in a place with about three other people in it, and the hand-painted sign calls it ‘The Baredowns’ which tells them all they really need to know. They’ve got enough left over to pay for a good inn room, and Fletcher keeps an arm around Cigarillo’s waist to help him up the stairs. When he’s about to let go to let him sit down, Cigarillo turns and throws his other arm around Fletcher’s neck. “You said I’d get a hug,” he complains into Fletcher’s chest, and Fletcher does his best not to stall out.

“Yeah, I did. That is a thing I said, yep, okay,” and he’s really too tall to make this work correctly unless he sits down, but that would mean sitting more or less on top of Cigarillo, and that’s Not Allowed in every single definition of the word that’s ever been. He still clumsily wraps his arms around Cigarillo’s torso, and it might be nice if it weren’t soul-crushingly awkward. Cigarillo lets him go and thumps down onto the rickety couch, and Fletcher sits down next to him, and he’s definitely a coward, but he’s just brave enough to put an arm around his shoulders.

Cigarillo leans into it, curls tickling against Fletcher’s neck, and Fletcher keeps his hand away from the bite. Away from the wet, slowly turning pink bandages. The other two are going to come up to the room with some whiskey to disinfect it the rest of the way, so Fletcher doesn’t wanna hurt him too much in the meantime. (Maybe, if it were a smaller scratch and not a gaping, bloody, leaking mess, Fletcher might offer to kiss it better. Maybe. Might. If he were braver, or more courageous, or less like himself.) He settles for pressing his lips into Cigarillo’s hair and closing his eyes and pretending he’s actually allowed to do so. “Fletcher,” Cigarillo pipes up, sounding worried as anything. Fletcher leans back, and Cigarillo looks like he’s got his heart in his throat. (Did he notice? Is he mad? Will he tell Fletcher to get out?)

Cigarillo kisses him.

Just once, just quick, like he’s terrified of any consequences of that, and Fletcher’s heart stops where it is. This isn’t something he even meant to catalyze, but it’s happened now, and– god, what is Fletcher supposed to do? He’s already weighing the team down, he’s already tried to bolt half a dozen times; the little red strings are frayed, and Cigarillo doesn’t deserve someone broken and flighty and fucked up like Fletcher is. Fletcher still follows after him for a brief second, selfish to the last.

Cigarillo blinks at him, scared like hell, and Fletcher gets the feeling that he’s not going to be allowed to bullshit his way out of this, but hell if he’s not going to try anyway. “Oh. I–I. You.” Cigarillo opens his mouth to say something, but Fletcher stands up and asks, “The others have been a long time, right? I’m gonna go check on that, be right back,” and then he’s out the door.  
///\\\\\///\\\\\///\\\\\  
There’s a knock on Fletcher’s door (he’s spineless, but he’s smart, of course, he got himself his own room) and he wonders if he could get away with pretending to be asleep. He waits in the silence and dark of his room for a moment, and then the knock comes again. _Thud… thud_ as the door beats against its frame under the force of the blows. Probably Zeke. 

God, Fletcher doesn’t want to talk to Zeke.

He stands up anyway, trudging across the floor in his pajamas, unlocking the door slowly like maybe, if he takes enough time, the big guy won’t be there by the time he finally checks. It doesn’t work, and the hall’s gas lamps light up the room Fletcher’s been sitting in for the past several hours, stitching up his shirts (poorly) and cursing at himself for being an idiot and for stabbing himself in the thumb. “Can I come in?” Fletcher takes a step back and gestures, and Zeke has to duck to avoid knocking his head on the doorframe. “It’s dark,” he points out when Fletcher closes the door behind him like maybe he didn’t notice. In the moonlight coming in through the window, he can see a pack of matches in Zeke’s hand.

Fletcher doesn’t stop him from lighting the one lamp he’s got, even if he doesn’t want to be looked at in the light. (He’d rather hide under a blanket for the rest of his life.) “What do you want?” he asks instead, crossing his arms across his chest like maybe that’ll give him some kind of defense against Zeke’s glare. 

Zeke doesn’t glare, though, doesn’t even look at him, keeps looking into the lamp. He seems angry, fists clenched tight around the matches, and Fletcher wonders if he’s going to get punched. “You leavin’ in the morning?” Zeke asks, and Fletcher thinks he would have preferred the punch. He shrugs. Words aren’t exactly coming out right at the moment. The big guy turns after a too-long moment of silence, and Fletcher realizes that he doesn’t look mad, he looks… almost like he’s _worried._

Which is bullshit, honestly – Zeke’s never been worried in his whole damn life, and Fletcher doesn’t see any reason why he should start now. “Don’t see why I shouldn’t,” Fletcher says with yet another shrug, and Zeke nods slowly. Like he’s putting something together, and Fletcher’s handed him another piece to the puzzle.

After yet more silence, Zeke says, “‘Cause we’d miss you.” Fletcher laughs. Zeke’s face sets hard, another scowl like the millions that he’s directed at Fletcher before, and he says, “It ain’t a _joke!”_ Zeke growls, big and slow and angry. He hasn’t been this angry to Fletcher’s face in a long, long time. Fletcher must flinch back because the big guy shuffles back a step, gives him a little room. There’s some trick of the light that makes him look soft. “I ain’t sayin’ it to make fun. You’re one of us, Nathaniel,” Zeke says, and it’s almost gentle enough for the earnesty in his voice not to wrend Fletcher’s chest open. And isn’t that just the thing? The _earnesty?_

Fletcher looks at him, takes everything in – the loose knot in his hair to keep it out of his face, the way his black eyes look almost warm in the lamplight, the scar on his hand stretching taut as he balls his fist up in a nervous tic. (Fletcher can’t see any strings, red or otherwise, forcing him closer. Fletcher thinks he’s doing that because he wants it.) Bravery and stupidity look similar, and it’s all too easy to pass off the second for the first, but Fletcher isn’t under any such illusions. Nathaniel Fletcher is a capital-C Coward, which means he is morally and physically incapable of being anything like brave, but stupidity has been in his wheelhouse since he was seven years old, and he’s had a lot of time to perfect it since then. “I’m about to do something really dumb,” Fletcher says, and it wasn’t originally going to be out loud, but he figures he might as well say something.

As blunt as he always is, “Don’t.” He looks like he thinks Fletcher is still talking about leaving. Fletcher doesn’t know why – that’s a good idea, the only smart thing Fletcher’s done in eight months. It’s a dick move, setting his hands on either side of Zeke’s head and crushing their lips together, tilting his head so that he doesn’t break his own nose with the force of it. See, Fletcher’s a smart guy, and he knows that when you kiss someone who only barely doesn’t hate your guts, that’s a good way to get punched in the jaw or in the gut, and he figures that this way, it’ll be easier. This way, Zeke can go back to the room and explain that Fletcher’s already left, but it’s okay, they’re better off without him anyways. This way, Fletcher can sit in his room and sew up his shirts and pretend the only thing still aching is the bruise and not his heart.

Except, Zeke doesn’t push him away.

No, instead, his hand fits over the back of Fletcher’s neck like it has a million times before, but this time, it’s pulling him closer, and Fletcher kind of forgets that he needs to leave and that this is going to make that more difficult because of how much he’s wanted this exact thing for so long. It’s hard to breathe, and it doesn’t get any easier when Zeke moves back just enough to press their foreheads back together. “You’re not leaving,” he says, and it’s so sure that Fletcher wilts under the feeling of being so obvious.

“I’m a liability,” he protests, but it’s weak.

“You’re _important,”_ Zeke insists. “You’ve saved all of us; more times than I can count.”

Fletcher snorts. “Because you can’t count,” he fires back, a shoddy echo of the insults he used to mean. Zeke draws back to glare at him, and Fletcher offers him a flimsy smile. “I– if you’re sure you want a sniveling coward around—”

Zeke’s thumb strokes across the back of his neck, and Fletcher closes his eyes to lean into it. “We could do a hell of a lot worse than you.”


End file.
